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The Daemon
To Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" The Daemon In 'Halla on a midnight dreary, while I my eyes grew dark and bleary. Over an evil incarnate volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping, Like someone children slapping, rapping at my chamber door. "Tis a cityguard," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was the day before November, And the fire's slow dying ember cast long shadows on the floor. Mournfully I wished the morrow; - vainly did I seek to borrow From that book the cure for sorrow - sorrow from a life of bore - From a life lived long and idle, that we people call a bore - I'll write a song for evermore! So sat I in silk humming, fingers on the chair's arm drumming Reposing - composing with fantastic musings ne'er heard before; So that now, to still the sound outside, I stood, repeating 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some fan visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - They want a song, and nothing more. Presently the sound grew stronger, hesitating I no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, just hold there a second more! But the fact is I was singing, and so gentle was your pinging, And my doorbell you weren't ringing, ringing at my chamber door, I was not sure that I heard you' - here did I throw wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness staring, long stood I there wondering, glaring, Doubting, dreamed a dream someone came midnight knocking at my door; But no word there was spoken, the silence stayed unbroken, But bespied I there a token, branded horseshoe marks on my floor, And then I smelled the brimstone burning, branded horseshoe marks on my floor. But only this, and nothing more. The chill gave me a yawning yearning, to my armchair was I returning, Then again I hear that tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is, just a bird beating at my lattice; Let me see then, what thereat it, that dragged me from my book of lore - Let me see then what this is so I may return to my book of lore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Opened then I did the shutter, on sulphur did I choke and sputter, In there stepped a deadly daemon with darkfyre flames galore. Not the least "Sorry" made she, nor a second stopped or stayed she But, attempting to degrade, she perched herself atop my door - Cast down a bust of Agar set up there atop my door - Perched, and smirked, and nothing more. There this succubus beguiling, gleaming fang-toothed smiling, With a tail and steel trident, a stern countenance she wore. "Ugh! Thy crest be shorn and shaven! Heart," I said, "black as a murder's raven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient daemon wandering through mist and moor - Tell me what thy lordly name is on misty Midgaard moor!" Quoth the daemon, "Nevermore." She preened herself, so very vainly, that word she spoke so plainly, Had itself no major meaning - little relevance it bore. For we all must be agreeing, that no other mortal being Ever yet was cursed with seeing Her above his chamber door - In place where once lived sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such a name as "Nevermore." But the daemon, sitting lonely in place of that bust, spoke only, That one word, as if what soul had shein that word did outpour. Nothing further then she uttered - not a daemon's wing she fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other fiends have flown before - By the morrow she will leave me, as fiends have flown before." Then she again said, "Nevermore." I started at the silence broken by her reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," laughed I, "what she utters is all she has in store! Caught by some whistling master, into shackles did he cast her, Flew she fast and flew she faster, but his shackles still she wore - Unable was she to break free, his shackles still she wore, And will remove them nevermore. But the daemon still beguiling, immune to my charm and wiling, Straight I wheeled my cushioned seat affront of daemon, dust and door. Then, into the softness sinking, I set my brain to thinking To solve the riddle, thinking what this ominous daemon of yore - What this grim, fiery, angry, blunt and ominous daemon of yore Meant in speaking "Nevermore." Thus sat I engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the form whose fiery eyes now burned into my soulless core. This and more I sat divining, with my eyes agleam and shining As my mind returned to rhyming to tunes that made the spirit soar, Against the velvet cushion, rhyming, to tunes that made the spirit soar - That shall be heard nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, was it purfumed by dwarven censer, Swung by Umarth, whose cloud-falls reeked down to the floor? "Wretch," I cried, "why hath He sent thee? Or do you think I might repent the Tail pulls! I bet ye want nepenthe from the tunes for thee I hath in store! Quaff, oh quaff, wish thee this nepenthe to forget the tunes I hath in store?" Quoth the daemon, "Nevermore." "Mephit!" said I, "thing of evil! Quasit maybe, but not a devil! Whether Whistler sent, or whether tempest tossed thee to my door, Sulphur stenched yet all undaunted, there thee sit, position flaunted, On this clan home by thee haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there hope for Drasnia? tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the daemon, "Nevermore." "Quasit!" cursed I, "thing of evil! Mephit maybe, but no devil! By Valhalla that bends above us - by that Palio we all adore - Tell this elf with talent laden if, my commission will be paid in Money or perhaps a maiden, a beauty that I can't ignore? Clasp a rare and radient maiden, with beauty I can't ignore?" Quoth the daemon, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, hellspawned fiend!" I screamed upstarting, "Get thee back into the tempest!" and some other things I swore. "Leave no hoof prints as a token, take thy brimstone harsh and smokin', Leave my thought process unbroken! Git yer butt from off my door! Take thy spear from out my brain, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the daemon, "Nevermore." And the daemon, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, Above the fallen bust of Agar broken on my chamber floor. And her eyes have all the seeming of a daemon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er her streaming winged shadows by the door. As my life streams out to that shadow lying gloating by the door, Says it one last time, "Nevermore."